Flight of the Eagles
by December Writing Dragon
Summary: It turns out the past stays with us in some very unexpected ways. Who knew music from a commercial could provoke memories of swirling dresses and glittering cuff links, of smiles shared and actually meant, of a celebrated alliance between Russia and America? Historical RusAme/AmeRus.


What connects a popular commercial melody and the festivities around pre-Bolshevik Russian-American relations? Turns out, a fair amount.

 **Flight of the Eagles**

The distilled glow of the television washed over Russia's hunched form from across the room as he worked at his desk. The near-continuous tapping of his fingers on the keys clashed with the inane sounds of whatever commercial was playing. It was for background noise, really, something to fight off the pressing silence that would otherwise smother him. His shoulders rose as he yawned widely, driven to drowsiness by the sheer mundane nature of the work he was facing. The promise of finding something more enjoyable as soon as he was done hung over Russia's head as persuasion to be done with it all quickly. But these bureaucratic forms didn't inspire rapidity. What was more, the white noise of the television had become invasive, a constant buzzing.

Sighing, Russia turned his back on the computer monitor, reaching for the remote.

He paused.

Oh. It made sense now.

In spite of his earlier boredom, Russia smiled wryly. The commercial advertisement playing was promoting some unnecessary product, but it was not that which caught Russia's attention. Rather, it was the music they were using. Perhaps it was a consequence of his restlessness and unwillingness to continue his work- regardless, Russia immediately let the memories flood through him, carrying him back over a century ago.

0o0o0

The world of the 1860's was vastly different in some respects to what existed today…and in some ways, almost identical. But one thing that held a certain unparalleled reverence was the pageantry; the sheer scale and appreciation to detail was on a level of its own. It was something Russia could appreciate, especially after being aboard a ship throughout the whole journey to New York. Several ships of the Imperial Russian Naval Fleet had been sent to San Francisco and New York- and their presence was met with unprecedented celebration. Though he was there because of his status as the embodiment of the country, Russia had also made it his own personal goal to help America enjoy the festivities as well.

The elite of his land enjoyed a good party- St. Petersburg was incurably cosmopolitan, and that fondness for elaborate celebrations had always been strong with Russia. That day in early November had been a breathtaking sight indeed. Long, full skirts swished in time with the graceful movements of the dancers. The polished buttons and cufflinks and chains glinted on the wrists, chests, and throats of the chattering gentlemen. And all the while, he and his officers were welcomed like celebrities.

"God, it feels surreal to be seeing something like this now," America admitted from his place beside Russia, watching their people mingle. Normally one to draw attention to himself without even trying, even today America seemed drained, withdrawn, even a bit grey- as if all the vibrancy had been bled from him. The shadows under his eyes were not fully hidden by the frames of his glasses; they were, however, at odds with the genuine- albeit tired- smile he wore. "Such a nightmare for so long…not even fully done yet. It feels weird to do things that are…enjoyable."

"If you do not, you are not really living," Russia assured him sagely. "But," he added fairly. "If whatever life presents you leaves no room for levity, you keep pushing through- to get one step closer back to days like this."

"I like days like this," America muttered, his words only for his companion. They watched and listened together. The Academy of Music was a kaleidoscope of color, and abuzz with all manner of sounds- singing, laughter, simpering, the tuning of instruments, the tapping of feet.

Russia turned his attention from the partygoers to America's pallid form. To others this might have been sensory overload, but Russia hoped America might enjoy these festivities for what they were. Proof of life moving on.

Apparently sensing Russia's gaze on him, America glanced over, eyebrows raised. "Yes?" he asked, still as forward as ever. He looked expectant, one hand raised, palm up. Russia stared at it.

America laughed.

It was a nice sound.

"You know, usually if someone wants to dance, they ask. You can ask, you know- verbally, using your words." Now Russia could see America's straight white teeth as his smile grew, and perhaps that was true happiness causing his eyes to shimmer.

"I did not-"

"It seems fitting," America said as Russia began to speak. Some color returned to his cheeks at last as a pinkish tinge blossomed there. He pushed on. "Everyone else is. So…yeah. I'll dance with you." His words were choppy, America apparently realizing Russia had not yet actually asked yet.

Russia saved him from further flustering. Wordlessly, he clasped America's outstretched hand in his own. He could feel the warmth seeping into his own skin where they touched, so hot Russia worried the skin might burn. Their eyes met as they stepped into position. Pausing only to find the rhythm of the music, they at last began to dance. For some reason, America seemed suddenly dazed as he kept his eyes focused on Russia's, and so Russia did his best to lead them safely through the dancefloor.

"Ah-" America stumbled as he dragged his foot, getting caught on a tile. Russia's grip tightened, arms drew America close. Again, amethyst met sapphire, and Russia returned America's sheepish smile with a cool one of his own. "Just follow the empire's lead," he advised.

America scowled, the effect lost through his laugh. He did still deliver a sharp jab with his elbow to Russia's ribs. "Smugness is unbecoming on you, Ivan."

"And I would say you wear insolence very poorly," Russia shot back, rubbing his side. "But it was far too amusing watching you raise hell for England."

America's grin widened, turned almost wolfish. "Pleasure was all mine." He tried leading the dance, only to trod on Russia's foot.

"Is this any way to treat your most favored trade partner?" Russia complained teasingly.

"That was in 1832, buddy. Times have changed."

"Still- I was the first."

A brief silence fell between them. Yes, Russia had indeed been the first to be named most valued trade nation to America. But there was something else to it all, some unseen line they were always toeing. Or perhaps they had stepped over it ages ago, without even noticing. Did that make it less significant? More? Russia was unsure, but he was certain that this feeling now, so close to America their fingers linked, arms bumping- it felt right. It was a welcome occurrence, to be so close he could count the freckles on the bridge of America's nose, or see just where his glasses were smudged.

Without telling his arm to move, Russia found his hand traveling up, gently unhooking those spectacles from America's face. Releasing America's hand- his own feeling suddenly empty- Russia set about to cleaning them with the hem of his jacket. He was just about to replace them on America's face when he paused, allowing himself a moment to appreciate the sight, no barrier of any kind between them.

No barrier.

Then America blinked, eyes squinting ahead, trying to make out Russia's blurred expression. Roused from his reverie, Russia quickly returned the glasses.

"Wow- never realize how dirty they are until they're clean," America mused, nodding in approval. He smiled. "Thanks, big guy."

Russia nodded. "Shall we?" he asked, voice hoarse. He cleared his throat.

Once more, America nodded, taking up his position once more. "Yeah, time to lead by example. The others are upstaging us."

Russia's chuckle was deep as he clasped America's hand and held his waist. Their movements were a little more focused now. The buzzing around them was muffled as they simply focused on enjoying themselves, their movements far from perfect, but always bearing an indisputable elegance of their own.

The festivities did not end there, for on and off the international chessboard, these two sides had embraced a bonded fate in their own rights.

"Writing to your wife, Kolya?" Russia asked aboard the Almaz. He leaned over the composer's shoulder as the man wrote, the hand not clutching a pen rubbing at his temples. "Something wrong?"

Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov frowned slightly. "Monotony- boredom."

"Well, only on the ship, certainly."

The composer nodded. "It's like it's pressing all around me- I keep hearing this buzzing, like a swarm of bees, this relentless sound."

Russia pursed his lips, humming thoughtfully. "Do you have a headache coming on?"

"It feels like the start of one."

Russia made a noise of sympathy. There was no denying the ruckus and unrest could be taxing on the body. But this seemed to come from some sort of opposite- a lack of excitement, or a lack of the right kind. "You've been on a ship for a long time- we're very welcome guests in America. Enjoy it. I am."

And he was. And so were his royalty. Fortunately not all were facing the same dilemma as Rimsky-Korsakov. Quite the contrary. Dear Alyosha, Grand Duke Alexei, almost a century after the Russian fleet had arrived in New York, sailed for the newly unified country himself, with Russia as part of his escort.

"Your royals are something," America had noted, sounding almost impressed. Russia could imagine why. America was a lively man, his endurance as a nation amplified by his natural abundant stamina. All in all, he probably found it exciting to have a human who could keep up with him. And being able to show off his land and history threw in a nice bit of flattery no embodiment of a country could turn down.

"That is true," Russia noted. He lived with them. He lived under their policies.

America laughed- it was a fuller sound now, full of life. Life moving on no matter what, in spite of all else- to spite all else. The corners of Russia's lips tugged upwards.

"You must visit me next," he informed America solemnly, though his eyes were alight. "We will have a tour like this- you can bring your diplomats, so we both will have done this now."

"I can agree to that!" America assured, beaming. "Gonna take awhile."

"That is fine," Russia said quickly. Perhaps too quickly. But at that moment, he could not be bothered to care.

Time passed, as it always does. America did eventually visit him. History was written in red. Fights were fought, battles fought harder still. Barriers rose and fell, giants sprung up and sank beneath the earth. The stars were touched. Leaders changed. Russia changed. America changed. But Ivan and Alfred endured.

And here Russia was now, staring unseeingly at the wall of his office. The commercial had ended- the buzzing had stopped. But new thoughts had begun.

Turning back to his computer, Russia began to type once more. He needed to consult a certain organization, one that helped preserve the delicate thread connecting their dream, a fragile thing, to be treasured unflinchingly.

The American-Russian Cultural Cooperation Foundation.

Violet eyes darted back and forth across the screen, lips moving soundlessly as he read. Nodding, Russia picked up his phone and dialed.

"Hello?" America's voice came through the phone.

"Hello, America. I was wondering if I might invite myself over in a few weeks."

There were general noises of confusion, until at last they died down and America said slowly, "Uh, sure big guy. Could you narrow down the date a bit? I'm a busy guy- gotta pencil you in."

Russia smiled. "The fifth of November."

A long silence fell between them.

"Yeah. I'd love that."

THE END

The title is a play on Flight of the Bumblebee, composed by Rimsky-Korsakov. There's a bit of a legend that, while sailing to America on the Almaz, he wrote to his wife "I'm bored and hear buzzing wind all the time," and that buzzing helped inspire the aforementioned song.

The American-Russian Cultural Cooperation Foundation celebrates the arrival of the Russian fleet in New York and San Francisco. November 5th marks a day of cultural education and celebration since 1992, including an annual gala. The event itself is immortalized in artwork you can find searching The Great Russian Ball at the Academy of Music, November 5, 1863.

This was a birthday fic for raindrops-on-summerday, a truly high quality human I'm so lucky to know.


End file.
